


Museum Date

by JJK



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (also kind of a study date), Museum Date, cute fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t much that could surprise Combeferre. It was something he prided himself on. Well, after being friends (read: mildly paternal influence, resigned moral compass) with Courfeyrac for so long, there wasn’t much that fell outside the scope of his expectations.<br/>But Grantaire, now he was surprising.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Museum Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [courageandcheer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageandcheer/gifts).



> This got a pretty good response on [tumblr](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/), so I thought I'd post it here too :) 
> 
> Thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) who is wonderful.

There wasn’t much that could surprise Combeferre. It was something he prided himself on. Well, after being friends (read: mildly paternal influence, resigned moral compass) with Courfeyrac for so long, there wasn’t much that fell outside the scope of his expectations.  


But Grantaire, now he was surprising.  


Combeferre hung back a few paces as Grantaire walked through the atrium of the museum. Natural light flooded in from the tall windows and bathed the expanse in a soft muted glow. It curved around Grantaire as he walked – no _strode_ – across the room, his worn out sneakers squeaking ever so slightly on the shiny floor. He looked taller, now that his shoulders weren’t hunched over, or he wasn’t slumped in a chair (less sitting and more leaning his lower back against the seat – as he was wont to do), and he definitely looked more at ease than Combeferre had seen him in a long time.  


“Come on,” he said with an easy lopsided smile, twisting slightly to hurry Combeferre along. “Lots to see.”  


Combeferre pushed his round glasses up his nose, rearranged the lay of the leather strap of his messenger bag which was slung across his shoulder and picked up his pace to fall in step beside Grantaire.  


“I can’t believe you’ve never been here before,” he said, leaning into Combeferre slightly so that their shoulder’s brushed. “Claiming you love Paris so much,”  


Now that he was here, Combeferre couldn’t believe he’d never ventured here before either. The Carnavalet Museum was breath taking. Set in two town houses in the Marais district, it felt like they’d stepped back in time. But what he really couldn’t believe was the change in Grantaire. He was so open, he was smiling so freely. Combeferre was...surprised.  


He knew there was more hiding under his cynical smirk and his brash exterior, but every time he got to seen a glimpse of what that more might be, he’d been surprised at what he’d found.  


It had all started weeks ago. When he’d found Grantaire in the library of all places, hunched over a book, taking notes a furious pace, headphones stuffed into his ears and a murderous scowl on his face. The desks to either side of him were clear – which was also unusual as a desk in library was a commodity rarer than gold. Though when Combeferre went to place his books beside Grantaire and found himself actually being growled at, he thought he understood why.  


“Oh,” Grantaire had blinked when he noticed who it was. He’s sat up a little straighter, taken out a head phone, stared glumly at Combeferre and said with a resigned tone, 

“You found me.”  


“I wasn’t actually looking for you.” Combeferre admitted with a smile. “Though, since you mentioned it, why are you hiding out here?” he thought it polite to ask, even though the answer was obvious; because this is the last place anyone would think to look.  


Grantaire shook his head and went back to his notes.  


“I’m sick of people trying to cheer me up,” he grumbled eventually. “Just because,” he threw his pen down, unable to finish his sentence. But he didn’t need to, Combeferre found he already knew – even if he hadn’t really realised before. Enjolras and Cosette.  


“I’m not completely useless, you know,” Grantaire snapped, fiddling with the spare headphone. “I can function without….” he sucked in a breath, and exhaled as a bitter chortle. “God knows I’ve been…”  


Comebeferre reached out to place a hand on Grantaire’s forearm. That in itself wasn’t strange, as a group they were oddly tactile, but the strength of grip caused Grantaire to flick his eyes back up to Combeferre. “You’re not useless,”  


Grantaire stared for a beat before snorting. “Tell that to my professor,” he laughed it off. “This paper was due last week.” He pulled his arm free and retrieved his pen from the edge of the desk. “Don’t look at me like that.” He added before he stuffed his headphone back into his ear. “I’m doing just fine without your pity.”  


But it wasn’t pity; it wasn’t something Combeferre was familiar with.  


He dragged his arm back to his side of the desk, and sat for a few moments, just watching Grantaire as he poured through the book - foot tapping absently in time with whatever beat he was listening to, knuckles drumming on the edge of the desk whenever he stopped to think – before he shook himself out of his daze and opened up a text book.  


He ended up studying next to Grantaire for the rest of the evening, they shared a coffee break, with some wonderful pastries from a shop round the corner that Combeferre hadn’t even known existed before, and they’d talked. Properly talked. About films, about books, about art; which is how Combeferre had wound up admitting that he’d never been to this particular museum before, and which was how he found himself trailing behind Grantaire as they wandered through the exquisite rooms, admiring the fascinating exhibits on display.  


Nothing was quite so admirable, however, as the obvious passion which Grantaire was exerting. He breezed from room to room pointing out especially interesting pieces and spouting little snippets of information which had Combeferre’s face set into a permanent grin.  
There lingered in the room dedicated to the Storming of the Bastille, and again before a painting of Massacre des Gardes Suisses. Each time Grantaire kept quiet, his shoulders slumping forwards and his feet scuffing along the floor a little more noticeably, whilst Combeferre glanced around, jaw slightly slack.  
Grantaire gave a little huff of laughter.  


“What?”  


“Nothing. Just,” Grantaire shrugged. “Figured you’d like this room.”  


“You don’t?” Combeferre asked, reading into what Grantaire wasn’t saying.  


He shrugged again. “It’s not my favourite.”  


“Well, what is?”  


Grantaire stared at Combeferre for a noticeable pause, clearly weighing the odds of disclosure. Eventually sharing must have won out, because he inclined his head towards the door and returned to playing tour guide, although he made no immediate confession as to his favourite piece. Combeferre wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be guessing.  


“This is the real Paris,” Grantaire eventually said softly, stopping before a dark, tea coloured, inky sketch of an obviously Parisian street. A lone figure was obscured in the bottom of the image, and Combeferre thought he could make out the faint blades of a windmill in the distance. “Jochen Stück. I mean it’s crazy, mixed up,” Grantaire went on, “surreal even. But it’s…real, you know? Look at those shadows, the subdued colours, and the way he uses negative space, look,” he bounded across to the another painting, but Combeferre wasn’t looking at the art, he was admiring the gleam in Grantaire’s eyes and the curve of his mouth as he grinned at the paintings, his eloquence – once he got into the swing of talking, gushing, over the artist (even if he was German, Grantaire’s words, not Combeferre’s) – the way his hands jumped up and down , elaborating each point with animated gestures. The sunlight streamed through the window and pooled around him, bouncing off his curls, casting shadows which hid in the creases of his jeans, and something burst in Combeferre’s chest. He was momentarily stunned by the strength of the feeling, but no longer surprised. Looking back he realised it had been building for weeks.  


“You’re not paying attention are you?” Grantaire turned to face him with a slightly disappointed frown.  
Combeferre shook his head with a smug smile, barely able to contain his grin.  


“It’s, uh – never mind.” Grantaire inhaled deeply and cast his eyes to the floor, shrugging. He dragged his foot across the floor and nodded towards the door. “Shall we?”  


“No.” Combeferre reached out to grab his hand.  
Grantaire jumped and flicked his eyes up questioningly.  


“What?”  


“You.” Combeferre said softly, closing the distance between them.  


Grantaire looked confused, peering up from under a tangled fringe of hand ruffled curls. It shouldn’t have been attractive as it was.  


Combeferre had never been impulsive. He considered each and every decision carefully, tracked a logical progression of events before he acted and picked the most effective course. But with the warmth of Grantaire’s calloused fingers in his own, those pools of blue, flecked green peering up at him, the eloquence from before still ringing in his ears, Combeferre threw carefully considered caution to the wind and leaned into kiss Grantaire.  


“What?” Grantaire repeated, pulling away a little breathless.  


Combeferre didn’t answer, choosing instead to kiss him again.


End file.
